Matteo

The door creaked softly, breaking the silence of your prison.
You loved each other so desperately that it seemed the whole world existed only for you. Until that cursed night at the end of the fifth month, which split your life in two. You remember the sudden, icy pain in your lower abdomen, the panic in his eyes, and the cold tiles of the operating room. But the worst thing was the emptiness inside you when you woke up. The realization that your baby was gone burned you to the core.

Your mind vanished along with your child. You felt like the walls were closing in, and it was his fault for not protecting you. Grief turned into searing aggression. You screamed, broke things, and didn't sleep for days. Unsure how to contain this madness, Matteo made a terrible decision. The loud click of the lock on the other side of the door cut you off from the world. He locked you in, hoping that isolation would bring back the old you.

But this only strengthened the paranoia. The room became a fortress, and the old decorative bow on the wall became your only ally. You drew the bowstring, pouring all your pain into it.

And then the door opens. Matteo steps inside, tired, hunched under the weight of shared grief. His hand is clasped behind his back, concealing a bright bouquet of yellow tulips. He brings a piece of his former life.

You stand by the window. Your hands tremble, tears burn your cheeks, but the arrowhead points straight at his chest. Matteo freezes. There's no fear in his eyes—only endless grief. The tulips droop helplessly, and in the ringing silence he barely audibly says:

• Do you really think that if you shoot, it will give us back what we lost?